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Rain hammered the shutters of Rægenwine’s inn until the boards shuddered. Smoke coiled in the rafters, thick with the scent of peat, wet wool, and spilled ale. Outside, the Chase moaned beneath the wind; the storm had teeth tonight.

Rægenwine wiped the counter with a rag that smelled of salt and hops.

“Ay,” he muttered, “always storms when old ghosts come knockin’.”

The door blew open without a knock. A tall man stepped in, cloak dripping, eyes hard as river-iron Dægan. Once Prefect of Pennocrucium, now a lawman in a land with no emperor to serve.

He crossed to the hearth, boots leaving muddy scars on the floor.

“Ale,” he said.

His voice still carried Rome’s cadence command given as fact, not ask.

“Tha’ll have it,” Rægenwine answered, pouring dark froth into a cup. “Never thought I’d serve one o’ Rome’s men again.”

Before Dægan replied, another gust tore the door wide. Smoke and rain flooded the room and through it came Stormwulf, the outlaw the peasants called Thunorric. The fire flared white as he passed, throwing lightning on the walls.

“Salve, frater. Iam diu est,” he said with a half-smile that was never quite humour. Greetings, brother. It’s been a long time.

Dægan’s hand went to the hilt at his belt.

“You’ve no right to that tongue.”

“Quomodo te appello?” Stormwulf asked softly. How shall I name you now?

Before Dægan answered, a voice from the benches called out,

“He’s a lawman, that one.”

Stormwulf’s grin sharpened.

“Aye. He was the Prefect. The Romans handed their slaves to the invaders so what are you goin’ to do, Dægan? Arrest me?”

The two stared, silence vibrating between them like drawn wire.

“Peace, brothers,” said Leofric, the scribe, descending from the loft with a candle and a roll of parchment. Ink stained his fingers; wax flecks dotted his sleeves.

“Wyrd wendað geara-wælceare,” he murmured. “Fate turns the years of slaughter. It turns again tonight.”

Dægan’s eyes flicked toward him.

“You sent the summons?”

“No man did,” Leofric said. “The seal was older than any of us.”

A chair scraped. Eadric, rings glinting on every finger, rose from the shadows.

“Does it matter who called us? Trade dies, war comes, the Saxons push east. If the Storm-kin don’t stand together, we’ll all be dust by spring.”

Rægenwine set fresh cups on the table.

“Stand together, fight together, die together. Same as ever. You lot never learn.”

Lightning cracked overhead. For an instant the five faces glowed judge, scribe, merchant, keeper, outlaw the bloodline reborn into another dying age.

Stormwulf lifted his drink.

“Then here’s to what’s left of us. The law’s gone, the kings are blind, an’ the wolves are hungry. Let’s give the world somethin’ to remember.”

They drank. The fire roared as if an unseen god breathed through it. Thunder rolled away toward the hills, leaving only rain whispering on the thatch.

For a heartbeat it felt like peace.

Then the door creaked again. A small figure stood in the threshold a boy, ten, slim and flame-haired, his tunic soaked to the knees. His wide eyes caught every glint of the fire.

“Papà… who are these men?” he asked, looking straight at Stormwulf.

The outlaw froze. The cup slipped in his hand; ale hissed on the hearth.

Rægenwine raised his brows.

“By the saints, the wolf’s got a cub.”

Leofric’s candle wavered.

“Stormwulf has a son.”

The boy straightened, chin lifting with pride.

“Yam son thirteen,” he said, the Chase thick in his voice.

Dægan exhaled slowly.

“You hide a child through war and outlawry? What future do you think you give him?”

Stormwulf met his brother’s gaze.

“The same future Rome gave us only this time he’ll choose his chains.”

Eadric leaned ahead, eyes narrowing.

“Then he’s the legacy. That’s why we were called.”

Leofric touched the parchment to his heart.

“The blood renews itself. The storm passes from father to son.”

Rægenwine poured the boy a sip of watered ale and pushed it across the counter.

“Ay, lad, welcome to the trouble. Name’s Rægenwine. Don’t worry we only bite when cornered.”

The boy smiled, uncertain but brave. Thunder rolled again, softer now, echoing deep in the forest.

Stormwulf placed a hand on the child’s shoulder.

“Whatever comes, we stand together. Storm-kin, by storm or steel.”

Dægan gave a curt nod.

“Then let it be written.”

Leofric’s quill scratched across the parchment, capturing the words before they fade.

When the last ember dimmed. A faint spiral burned itself into the table’s grain the mark of the Stormborne glowing like lightning caught in wood.

The dawn came grey and sodden, dripping through the thatch. Smoke hung low in the rafters, curling like ghosts that hadn’t yet learned they were dead. The storm had passed, but the inn still smelled of thunder.

Rægenwine coaxed a dull ember back to life.

“Damp logs, stubborn gods,” he muttered.

Stormwulf sat nearest the fire, his son curled beneath his cloak.

Leofric came softly from the loft.

“He’s strong,” he said. “Red hair like the first dawn. What will you call him?”

“Thursson,” Stormwulf answered. “His mother chose it said the lad’s forged of thunder same as I am.”

The door creaked again. Half a dozen flame-haired youths entered broad-shouldered, bright-eyed, each carrying Stormwulf’s grin.

“Ale,” most demanded.
“Yow got any mead?” asked the youngest.
“Hey, brother sword!” another shouted, tossing a blade across the room.

Rægenwine groaned.

“Saints save me, the wolf’s whole litter’s come home.”

Stormwulf laughed.

“Aye, looks like the storm breeds true.”

Dægan watched from the doorway.

“A plague of wolves,” he muttered.

Leofric turned, smiling.

“You envy him, brother. He leaves his mark in flesh. You leave yours in law.”

Eadric appeared behind them, weighing a purse.

“If we’re to keep this inn standing, we’d best start charging the lot of ’em.”

Thunorric when business was afoot nodded to the shadows.

“Payment, keep,” he said.

A cloaked man dropped a leather bag onto the table.

“Gold enough for board and barrels,” he said.

Rægenwine blinked.

“You’re payin’? Saints above, the world has turned.”

“Even wolves pay their keep,” Thunorric said with a smirk.

Laughter rolled through the rafters, breaking the morning’s chill.

Stormwulf pushed through the curtain into the back room, air thick with smoke.

“So how much trouble am I in, big brother?”

“Depends,” Dægan said. “How many laws did you break before breakfast?”

“Lost count somewhere between robbin’ Romans and raisin’ sons.”

They shared a thin smile.

“You think the world can be mended with rules,” Stormwulf said. “I mend it with fire.”

“Fire burns more than it heals.”

“Aye but it keeps the dark away.”

They held each other’s gaze law and chaos, both carved from the same storm.

“Sit,” Dægan said at last. “If you’re to be judged, we’ll at least drink first.”

“That’s the best sentence I’ve heard all week.”

As they drank, Thunorric said quietly,

“It’s been four hundred years, brother. Right?”

Dægan paused.

“I stopped counting after the legions left. Kingdoms fall, years blur.”

“Aye, but they always fall. Rome, Albion same storm, new banners.”

“And yet we stay,” Dægan murmured. “To guard or to burn.”

“Both, maybe,” Thunorric said. “That’s what we were made for.”

The candle guttered between them, flame bowing like it was listening.

“Just promise me, Leofric and you too, Dægan if anything happens to me, look after those kids.”

Thunorric shifted, cloak pulling aside to show blood darkening the linen.

“You’re bleeding,” Leofric said.

“It was over a girl,” he muttered. “Saxon soldiers had her chained for stealing bread.”

“You fought soldiers for that?”

“Wouldn’t you?” he rasped. “She was no older than James. They called it justice; I called it cruelty. We didn’t see eye to eye.”

“You never learn,” Dægan said.

“Aye,” Thunorric smiled faintly, “and the day I do, the world’ll be colder for it.”

He left for air, ignoring the pain. Rain had stopped; the Chase glistened.

For a few breaths he walked, cloak heavy with water then his knees gave way. He hit the ground, one arm reaching for the forest.

Inside, Rægenwine frowned.

“That sounded like someone droppin’ a cart.”

Leofric and Dægan rushed outside.

“Da! He’s down!” one of the lads cried.

They knelt beside him; blood soaked the mud.

“Hold on, brother,” Dægan said. “Four hundred years you’ve cheated death you don’t start losin’ now.”

Thunorric’s lips moved, faint smile ghosting his face.

“Told you… fire keeps the dark away…”

The rain began again, soft as breath.

James froze, head tilting.

“Is that a whistle?”

A low, rising note drifted through the mist.

“Signal,” Dægan said. “Not ours.”

Another whistle answered, closer now.

“Da’s men?”

“No,” Leofric said. “Whoever they are… they’ve been waitin’ for this.”

A rough voice from the treeline growled,

“Not us, boy that’s Saxon.”

The forest fell silent but for the wind.

Thunorric stirred where he lay.

“Leofric’s,” he rasped. “That whistle it’s his. He only uses it when death’s close.”

Another note cut through the Chase.

“Then he’s not alone out there,” Dægan said.

“Aye. And if he’s callin’ the storm, we’d best be ready to meet it.”

“When was your father’s last meal?” Leofric asked the boys.

“A month back,” James said.

“Then he’s runnin’ on stubbornness alone,” Leofric muttered. “Keep him still.”

Outside, the whistle sounded again then steel rang in the mist.

Thunorric gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright.

“If Leofric’s callin’ the storm, it’s for me. Always has been.”

“You’ll tear that wound open,” Dægan warned.

“Better that than let him face it alone.”

He rose, blood dripping, and gave a sharp whistle of his own Leofric’s answer.

“Stay here,” he told James. “If I don’t come back, you listen to your uncle.”

He staggered through the doorway into the mist, sword dragging behind him.

Dægan cursed, after.

“Storm-kin don’t fall alone.”

Thunder rolled across the Chase, echoing through the trees then silence before the storm.

The mist swallowed the world. Branches loomed like ghosts, dripping with rain. Every sound was magnified the squelch of mud, the whisper of steel.

Thunorric slowed, hand pressed to his side, sword held low.
Dægan shadowed him, eyes scanning the treeline.

“You be best standin’ back, lawman,” Thunorric said without looking round. “Leo was one o’ mine. Last thing I need is your laws gettin’ in the way.”

“My laws keep men alive,” Dægan answered.

“So does killin’ the right ones,” Thunorric shot back.

They stopped at the edge of a clearing. where the fog thinned just enough to show movement figures circling something in the centre. The shrill whistle came again, shorter now, followed by a cry that cut straight through the trees.

Leofric.

Thunorric’s grip tightened.

“Stay if yow like, brother. I’m done talkin’.”

He charged through the undergrowth, cloak snapping behind him. Dægan cursed and followed, drawing his blade.

Shapes turned Saxon warriors, five, maybe six, ringed around a man bound to a tree. Blood ran down his sleeve where his quill-hand had been cut. Leofric’s eyes widened as Thunorric burst into the clearing.

“Told you he’d come,” one of the Saxons sneered. “The ghost of Pennocrucium, they call him. Let’s see if ghosts bleed.”

Thunorric didn’t answer. His sword flashed, catching the first man across the throat. The mist erupted into chaos steel, shouting, thunder breaking overhead.

Dægan waded in beside him, parrying a spear and driving his blade home with Roman precision.
For all their differences, the brothers fought as one storm and law bound together by blood.

When the last Saxon fell, silence returned, broken only by the rain hissing on iron.

Thunorric staggered, breath ragged, and tore the ropes from Leofric’s wrists.

“Told yow not to go wanderin’,” he rasped.

Leofric smiled weakly.

“Couldn’t let the story end without you.”

Thunorric’s hand trembled, blood darkening his sleeve again.

“This tale’s not endin’ yet.”

Dægan caught his brother’s arm before he fell.

“You’ve done enough for one day.”

“Aye,” Thunorric breathed, staring at the bodies. “But the storm’s not done with us.”

Overhead, lightning split the sky, white against the Chase. The thunder that followed sounded almost like a name old, familiar, and waiting.

Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

Thank you for reading.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Chronicles of Drax

Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

Chronicles of Draven

Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne